Narcissus
by fictitiousburn
Summary: "But Mother," he interrupted with a frown, "this isn't a happy story." "Falling in love, Draco, is always a happy story." And Narcissa continued (Narcissa/Lucius, Draco/Hermione)


**narcissus**, an **alternate universe** of parental approval

"Don't trample my flowers, Draco, darling," his mother used to remind him. It was the only rule she had given him when he entered her garden but in the excitement of his childish years, he had never really heeded her warning. With his father, things were rigid and stern and there was no room for error. But his mother exercised a certain freedom for him, a certain kind of love that left him giddy and fulfilled. He climbed into her lap then and begged her for stories.

"Tell me a story, Mother," he said with a grin, "please tell me a happy story."

Narcissa always complied. She always wrapped her arms around her son and settled her chin against his head lovingly. She always told him the same story about an ambitious, shy young girl fell in love with a powerful, attractive and arrogant young man. They were well and evenly matched in every way. The girl had always loved the boy before he had even noticed her. And when he did, his mother told him, "it was the happiest day of her entire life." He was a beautiful boy, and then the arguments started.

"Boys aren't beautiful, Mother!"

"He was beautiful, Draco. Beyond handsome."

And she would continue talking about the beautiful boy with just the slightest upturn of his nose, the slightest smirk printed into his lips, the elegant ribbons that held his blonde hair at bay. She always ruffled his hair during these parts, fondly reminded of the platinum hair that was talked about in the story. Draco rarely interrupted and listened to his mother talk about a girl who had foolishly fallen in love with a boy who finally noticed her, finally gave her the happiest day of her entire life, and then proceeded to make her miserable.

"But Mother," he interrupted with a frown, "this isn't a happy story."

"Falling in love, Draco, is _always_ a happy story." And Narcissa continued.

Even though the girl was miserable, she was in love. Having the chance to fall in love and marry the man she loved was a dream, even if the boy grew into a beautiful man that she didn't recognize. They had a family, they had a son together, and yet the love was still strong. The girl who was now a woman loved her husband and her son, even if her husband didn't feel the same way anymore. Even though she could hardly tell. Sometimes he would look at her with that smirk or let his hair down or let his _guard_ down and she would remember that beautiful boy. But only sometimes, his mother reminded him. Most of the time, he was not that boy.

"One day," Narcissa assured him, "there will be a girl to love you even if you are not the boy she thought you were."

He had never thought the day would come. But there he was, treading carefully in her garden to not step on her flowers. She wasn't there, Narcissa had long since passed away, but he found himself in the garden sitting by her beloved plants. He remembered her stories and smiled fondly.

"You were right," Draco talked to the ghost of his mother, "there was a girl who loved me even though I wasn't the boy she thought I was." He paused, pressing his hand against the soil. "But it's an even happier story. I'm glad that I wasn't the boy she thought I was."

There is a long stretch of silence where Draco listened to the wind, his eyes closed, aching for the soothing sounds of his mother's voice, hoping to hear her story with her chin resting against his head. But someone else is there, arms laced over his shoulders, chin pressed against his head, fingers ruffling his blonde hair.

"Draco," the brunette said with a whisper, "we should go."

The blonde is still, his hand still pressed in the dirt, still immersing himself in a memory. Eventually, he stood and looked down at the girl's inquisitive brown eyes peeking back at him. "All right, Hermione," he relented with a faint smile, "we'll go."

On the way out of the garden, she stumbled and landed into a bed of flowers. She doesn't understand why it upset the blonde so much, but he remained still and didn't speak to her. He just extended a hand and helped her out of the dirt, and rather than ask if she was okay, he knelt down to straighten the crushed petals she had landed on.

"Don't trample the flowers," he chided her harshly, but yet he was smiling.


End file.
